by Jeff Strand
I took the printout, returned to my room, and shoved it into an envelope (the printout, not my room, though I suppose for literary purposes my room would have been both more original and more exciting). If anyone would appreciate the skit, it was Travis. And the people at the restaurant probably would enjoy it, so I made a mental note to bring a copy for them to read.
* * *
I stood behind the counter at Hank’s Ice Cream, my new place of employment. Hank’s Ice Cream wasn’t quite as prestigious as the Twin Streams Lodge, but it did have six delicious flavors: Chocolate, Vanilla, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl With An Emphasis On The Chocolate, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl With An Emphasis On The Vanilla, and Superman Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl, which had red and blue food coloring in the vanilla part.
In the four weeks of summer thus far, I’d completed seven skits (including one where I got a staggering amount of momentum out of the phrase “your ding-dong”) and started but trashed about fifty. I’d also written one that was heavily influenced by the disgusting way Hank ate an ice cream cone, which I called The Vibrating Slurp & Gulp. Naturally, I wasn’t going to show it to Hank, but my co-worker Albert would certainly enjoy it.
* * *
“That’s good to hear, sir,” I said, filling my voice with an I’m-Getting-Sexual-Pleasure-Out-Of-This-Job degree of enthusiasm. “The reason for my call is that I’ve just noticed your subscription to Guitar Freak will expire in only seven months, and I wanted to give you this exclusive chance to renew at the low price of only 79 cents an issue!”
Yes, I was working as a telephone solicitor. Yes, there’s a black cloud of shame over my heart to this very day because of it. I never would have taken a job in such a vile, rotting, sweaty armpit of a career, but Albert had thought my skit was so hilarious that it just had to be shared with Hank. Hank disagreed about its humor value, and fired me with the promise that in the future he would personally piss on any ice cream cone purchased by one of my relatives. I needed work fast. The telephone-marketing corporation paid well and I could start immediately.
I know, I know, that’s no excuse for actually working there. I knew it was going to be a pretty miserable job, as are most jobs that involve contact with lots of people who hate your guts. From the very first call on my first day I knew I was in for a dark experience:
“Hello, may I speak to Christopher Netter?”
“No you may not! He’s just slit his wrists!”
Which wasn’t as bad as my second call:
“Hi, I’m calling for Mr. Dale Laymon, on behalf of Food Digest magazine.”
“Dale Laymon is dead! He ate his copy of Food Digest and the staples caught in his throat and killed him! It’s taken me three years of therapy to convince myself that his ghost is not seeking vengeance! Go away, Dale! You’re not real! Get back! Noooooooooooooooo—”
Or something like that. I’m not always the most reliable narrator.
After my first evening as a telemarketer, I was at home cleaning my room because of an unbearable need to do something constructive to make up for the anti-constructive time spent at work. So greatly had this job disturbed me that I was actually cleaning under my bed. I found all kinds of neat stuff. A ten-dollar bill, the glass of milk I’d been looking for, my dad’s ulcer medication, and the puppy I’d been given for my eighth birthday.
No, not a real puppy, a stuffed one. Even I wouldn’t do a dead-puppy-under-the-bed joke. A baby, maybe, but not a puppy.
And I found an old diary, one that I’d started in the fifth grade. I’d only stuck with it for a few entries, and those entries were pretty insipid (“Dear Diary, I wish I were Darth Vader”). But it started me thinking. Maybe there was some comedic material here.
Then the idea burst into my head, destroying several other brain waves in its path, including a wave that held the location of the glass of milk I’d just found.
I worked on this idea for the next two weeks, revising the hell out of the poor thing as I went. But once I’d finished, hey, I didn’t think it sucked!
And “The Private Diary of Leonard Parr” was born.
“THE PRIVATE DIARY OF LEONARD PARR”
by Seth Trexler
JAN. 1: Dear Diary, it’s a new year, and I’ve finally realized that my annual resolution to get in shape is a waste of time. If God had meant me to exercise, He wouldn’t have made me so lazy. So I resolve to keep this journal of my life, and write in it every single day, even those days where all I did was watch TV and practice clipping my toenails so that they pop up into my mouth. This is really going to be fun!
FEB. 3: Okay, I’ve fallen a bit behind. But from now on, Diary, I’m going to write every single day. Because when I look at these first thirty years of my life, I really wish I’d been writing things down. Maybe then I wouldn’t draw a complete blank for what happened between the ages of twenty-six and twenty-eight. And that four-year memory gap during my time in college still disturbs me, as does the stinging pain that rips through my brain when I try to recall my life before I turned sixteen. But that won’t be a problem anymore, right Diary? You’re going to be my best friend in the whole world.
FEB. 24: Today was a bad day at the laboratory. I think I came very close to finding the cure for the common cold, but I forgot the notes in my pants pocket when I did the laundry. So I went to find the lab mouse I’d been studying, but it had been in my pants pocket, too. Oh well. Simmons tried to give me a wedgie, but I fooled him by not wearing anything under my lab coat.
MAR. 11: Sorry I fell behind again. Work has been hectic, what with the lawsuits and all. The labels on the toxic waste containers clearly state “Do Not Get In Hair,” but a few members of the tour group didn’t pay attention. Lousy preschoolers. Anyway, their parents are suing us for ten million dollars a mutation, plus they want a written apology. And it has to be sincere or they’re just going to tear it up and make us write it over again.
APR. 2: I’ve decided to take up photography. It pays very well. I’m currently making $500 a week for a picture I took of the governor and his mistress.
APR. 28: Don’t look at me that way, Diary. I know I’ve been neglecting you, but I’m a busy man. I’ve got more important things to do than sit here and write in you all day. But I promise I’ll do better, okay? Still friends? Good.
MAY 17: Guess what? No, guess again! I have a date tonight! Her name is Kimberly, and she’s even more beautiful than the mother on Leave it to Beaver! She has eyes of the deepest blue, hair black as the night, lips red as a delicious apple, teeth the color of a wonderfully tart lemon, and brownish gums. We met this afternoon when the guided tour was coming through the lab right after Higgins had shouted “Specimen fight!” Some fungi with explosive properties we’d been previously unaware of struck Kimberly’s boyfriend, and she immediately thanked me for sparing her one of those uncomfortable breaking-up talks. Though I’ll admit to not being very smooth with women, the first thing out of my mouth was “Holy shinola!” There was a deadly virus right on her shoulder! But, warning her to keep still, I reached over and flicked it off, saving her life and the lives of everyone present, except the guy the virus landed on. I had the presence of mind to take advantage of her gratitude by asking if I could borrow a few bucks for lunch, and she asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with her. We’re going to see the new film by my favorite director, Alan Smithee, though for some reason her suggestion was something called Lord of the Unzipped Flies.
MAY 31: I forgot to write about it before, but my date was a complete failure. First of all, I got the idea right away that Kimberly was ashamed to be seen with me. I mean, we went to the most expensive place in town, The Devoured Cow, and before we even got our appetizers she was asking me to come back to her place! And the meal was awful. What kind of restaurant doesn’t serve Cheetos, for God’s sake? At one point Kimberly picked up a pickle and began to lick it very, very slowly, gradually working the entire thing into her mouth, moving it back and forth, looking into my e
yes the entire time, the message clearly being “The longer I keep this pickle in my mouth, the less time I have to talk to you.” I could sense that the date was going to continue its disastrous path, but we went to the movie anyway. First off, Alan Smithee greatly disappointed me. The plot was non-existent, the cinematography poorly-conceived, and the opening credits grammatically incorrect. Plus I misjudged the size of the hole in the armrest when I set my drink into it and it fell right through. Halfway through the movie, Kimberly leaned over and stuck her tongue in my ear in a blatant attempt to make me miss an essential bit of dialogue. Hold on a second, the phone’s ringing...
JUN. 14: Oh, yeah, like you’ve never forgotten anything! You know, just because you get to lie around all day doesn’t mean the rest of us do. Now, where was I? Let me re-read that last entry.
JUN. 29: So I got distracted while I was reading that last entry! Does this make me a bad person? I donate money to help our schools, dammit! And all I get in return is a non-winning lottery ticket every week! So if my devotion to philanthropy causes me to skip a few days’ worth of diary entries, well, that’s just tough luck for you! If you don’t like it, you can pucker your softbound lips and kiss my sizable butt! I can’t write anymore, I’m too furious.
JUL. 25: Diary, last entry I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. Let’s just put this whole ugly incident behind us, okay? Anyway, back to my date with Kimberly. After the movie ended (with the hero surviving...as he did in Alan Smithee’s last film! The unoriginal bum is just reliving past glories now), we got in my car and I started to drive her back to her apartment. I knew we were almost there because I recognized the “Welcome! You’re in the bad part of town!” sign. Then she put her hand on my thigh. Can you believe it? She was trying to run me off the road! By the time I got the car under control I’d wiped out six pedestrians and a yak. We reached her apartment building, and after we hosed down the front of my car she invited me in for a nightcap and some Cheetos. She had one of the nicest apartments I’d ever seen, even with the pastel motif. “How do you pay the rent?” I asked. “Sleep with the landlord,” she replied. Then I realized that I recognized her from someplace. To be specific, the January issue of Silicone Sweeties. I happened to have the magazine with me, and when I showed it to her she reacted with a degree of anger (“I’m gonna kill Ron! He said those pictures were only for his friends!”). She then asked me if I was in the mood for a roll in the hay. Obviously she was making fun of my horse-like table manners, so I declined and went home.
AUG. 18: Today my aunt celebrated her tenth wedding anniversary. Well, actually the first anniversary of her tenth wedding.
SEP. 17: Don’t look at me like that.
SEP. 30: Don’t look at me like that, I said.
OCT. 9: Damn you, damn you, damn you! I don’t need this kind of guilt from a stupid diary! I own you, not the other way around! Had I known the misery you’d bring to my life, I would’ve left you on that K-Mart shelf to rot! Rot, you hear me, rot! Let me explain something to you, okay? ME: Master, writer, controller of my own destiny. YOU: Rotten little bastard of an inanimate object, and highly flammable. So screw you and the horse you rode in on!
OCT. 28: Diary? It’s me, Leonard. Please don’t turn the page on me...we need to talk. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not sure what came over me, but I swear it will never happen again. Look, I said I was sorry...what more do you want? You can’t leave me hanging like this! For the love of God, you have to forgive me! You’re nothing without me, nothing!
NOV. 6: I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Diary. I’m going to throw you into the incinerator. You won’t know when I’ll strike. Maybe tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But you’re going to die, engulfed by the hellish flames from whence you came, and I’m going to dance on your ashes! It’s over for you, Diary! Hahahahahahahaha!
NOV. 22: I hope you’re happy, you bastard. I got fired from my job today, because I was brooding about your imminent death instead of paying attention when we were experimenting on that Black Plague virus. My boss was going to give me another chance, but then we found out that a few rebellious teenagers have escaped the quarantine. If they were infected, then mankind is doomed.
DEC. 3: Well, mankind is doomed.
DEC. 18: The end is near, Diary, and you’re the only thing that keeps me going. I watch my friends fall, and I shed tears for their passing, and I fear joining them in death, but I know that you will give me permanence. Through the words you keep inscribed upon your very flesh, I shall live on! My body shall soon become but a lifeless shell, and my spirit shall vanish into the netherworld, but the life of I, Leonard Parr, will be forever preserved! I love you, Diary, and if this is the end, so be it. I am ready.
JAN. 1: Bought an exercise bicycle today. I really do need to get in shape before I die.
Chapter Nine
“The Summer of Love (But Not For Me)”
Dearest, darlingest Seth,
‘Tis your future roommate Travis, finally writing back! I admit it, I’m terrible about writing letters to people, and next time you see me feel free to superglue my nose to my belly button (or somebody else’s belly button) as punishment. Believe it or not, I’ve got some important things to share, which I couldn’t tell you over the phone because my grandma and grandpa take turns listening on the other extension. Someday I’m gonna call a 1-900 sex line just to test their pacemakers.
Finally got a chance to read the stuff you sent. Especially liked the ding-dong skit. If we ever perform it, I want to play the guy holding the dachshund.
Was at a bookstore a couple days ago and I picked up this magazine called Gleefully Disturbed. All kinds of strange stuff in it. Lots of weird humor. They only pay in contributor’s copies, but I thought it would be a cool place to send your diary story. (By the way, I really sympathized with Leonard. That pickle thing has happened to me more times than I can count.) I tore out the page with submission guidelines, so you should find it in this envelope somewhere.
And now, the big news! The previously uncharted territory of the nether regions of the female of our species has been explored, mapped, and claimed in the name of Travis Darrow! And there was no pleading or exchange of money involved! I didn’t even kidnap anyone!
In other words, Mr. Happy is extremely happy.
Not at the moment, of course. If I were typing while having sex that would indicate a lack of interest in the act that would turn off most participants, unless they were impressed by my ability to multi-task.
What’s that I hear? Your voice shouting from Sharpview, shrieking “DETAILS! GIMME DETAILS!” at the top of your lungs?
Okay, here are the details.
Her name was Roberta, which is a wonderful name to moan when one is losing one’s virginity. You just emphasize the “Ro,” draw out the “ber,” and gasp the “ta,” as in “Roberrr[pant]ta, Roberrr[pant]ta!” Some people make a case for single-syllable names being preferable in this situation, but I’d take a Roberta over a Gail any day.
She’s twenty-eight years old, so yeah, she’s a vicious cradle-robber. Blonde hair, tall, not quite bucket material but pretty close. She’s a waitress (a good one—she brought all the extra napkins I needed).
Basically, I was on my way back from the movies, around eleven o’clock. I really felt like a hot fudge sundae (speaking of which, did Hank ever get the chance to make good on his threat?) so I stopped by this cafe I’d never been to before. Roberta was the only one working there, and the place was just about to close.
I finished my sundae, which was excellent. The fudge was nice and hot, the ice cream was nice and cold, and the whole thing mixed together in a perfect gooey concoction. You know how sometimes the ice cream melts too quickly, and you’re left with a bowl of sludge? Well, this ice cream held its form admirably well, and I was quite pleased.
Then I realized I didn’t have any money, because I’d forgotten about the large popcorn I bought at the movies. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but t
his little moment of stupidity got me laid.
I went up to the cash register and told her I didn’t have any money. She looked at me for a long time, then said “Well, I guess you’ll have to find another way to pay me.”
Then I had a Leonard Parr moment, where for a second I thought I was going to have to do a hot fudge sundae’s worth of dishes. I asked her what she had in mind.
“I thought maybe you’d fuck me.”
I swear to God I’m not making this up. That’s exactly what she said. It was like a bad porno flick. I could almost hear the repetitive soundtrack in the background. I deliberated for about .0004 of a second and then said “okay.” I mean, I did owe her for that sundae.
She took me home to her one-bedroom apartment and let me call my grandmother to tell her I was sleeping over at a friend’s house (always the responsible one, I am). Then Roberta asked if I wanted something to drink, or if I’d rather her just get naked first. I expected a boom mike to dip into the frame at any second. I replied that naked worked for me. Then she led me to the bed (queen size, sagging a little in the center), and we proceeded to act out our own sex education video.
In case you’re interested (which you are, admit it!), here are the night’s statistics:
ORGASMS: Mine: 4, Hers: 3 (manually derived, unfortunately).
INTERCOURSE POSITIONS: Missionary (twice), Female Dominant “Riding” (once), and some weird one that’s hard to describe (see attached drawing).
ASSORTED ACTS: Kissing, tickling, groping, stroking, licking, sucking, slurping, biting, pinching.
